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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448978">Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NETHERW4RT/pseuds/NETHERW4RT'>NETHERW4RT</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Priests, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood, Corruption, Demon Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Drowning, Light Angst, M/M, Narcolepsy, Narcoleptic GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Not Beta Read, Priest GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Priest Karl Jacobs, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Worship, but not really, fuck if i know man, i speedran this shit like dream when he streams once per century, idk how to describe it im so sorry, idk what im doing with this one lol, in a way???, karl deals with georges bullshit™, mild horror elements, not really but like its implied?, question mark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:33:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,088</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448978</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NETHERW4RT/pseuds/NETHERW4RT</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Why do we worship?” Karl asks quietly. His hands are trembling now, clinging tight to each other over pure white, satin fabric.</p>
  <p>“I don’t know,” George repeats honestly. He steps beside Karl, before the altar, and counts each item adorning the surface: dossal, chalice, miscellaneous cups, and bottles of oils. “Because we want to,” he continues, “because we have to.”</p>
</blockquote>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ino_sukes/gifts">ino_sukes</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>happy late valentine’s day !! take...whatever this is lol</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> It’s cold. Light. Airy, yet dense all the same.</em>
</p><p><em> George’s eyes snap open and he winces, the rush of cold and the feel of water violating him. His mouth opens instinctively to curse, yet water floods its way inside there as well. Small pockets of air bubble to the surface—a surface far above him. </em> Much too far above him<em>.</em></p><p><em> His vision is blurry, limbs swaying a second behind his mind registering the movement. He can see the color of his skin reflecting in blobs through the water, like thick beams of seaweed. His nails are bleeding red, seeping into the clear water around him. George is reaching, he doesn’t know what for, but he’s reaching and he </em> can’t <em> reach and it’s driving him mad.</em></p><p>
  <em> Suddenly, it’s terrifying.</em>
</p><p><em> He’s flailing, floating uselessly in water that feels heavy on his shoulders and thicker than the blood coursing through his veins. It’s weighing him down, dragging him deeper and deeper below the surface until he’s screaming to something, someone, </em> anyone<em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>There’s no one to hear it.</em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“George,” a careful voice calls to him. George’s mind is far away and buzzing with white noise, but he holds enough of himself to loll his head towards the echo. “You fell asleep again.” His eyes struggle for a moment to focus, blurry scenery fading into the background as Karl’s face appears out of unfamiliar geometric shapes.</p><p>George blinks and looks down at himself, then smooths out the wrinkles in his silk robe and adjusts the stole across his shoulders. “Forgive me,” he mutters, rising from the floor. His knees tremble under his weight, lungs burning on the inhale, but it’s nothing new. “I must’ve prayed for too long.”</p><p>Karl shakes his head. George notices the dark bags drawn under his eyes and wonders if he feels it too—the weight on their shoulders, the heavy, almost supernatural presence that they can’t place. “It’s alright,” the former says. “It’s good to devote yourself to the Lord.”</p><p>“I suppose.” His words are quiet, painted in something somber.</p><p>“Are you going to resume your prayers?”</p><p>A crack of thunder lights up behind the large stained glass window and George becomes acutely aware of the harsh pitter-patter of rain across the roof’s shingles. Shadows flicker across the walls as service candles sway in still air; he figures Karl has been here with him all night, keeping him company and observing the church. “I don’t know,” the brunet answers after a prolonged silence. </p><p>“Well, that’s alright, too.” Karl hums and folds his hands across each other, careful and tender, as if he were caressing himself as a lover. He turns his gaze towards the window and follows the dark glass along the edges, tracing the outlines of the art carved in between. They’ve learned the story behind it many times before—so many that George could practically recite the entire thing by memory.</p><p>“A fallen god,” he says absentmindedly, “restored to his former grace.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Why do we worship?” Karl asks quietly. His hands are trembling now, clinging tight to each other over pure white, satin fabric.</p><p>“I don’t know,” George repeats honestly. He steps beside Karl, before the altar, and counts each item adorning the surface: dossal, chalice, miscellaneous cups, and bottles of oils. “Because we want to,” he continues, “because we have to.”</p><p>The ground rumbles with another crack of thunder, another flash of lightning. He turns away, catches a glimpse, a flash, of something dark out of the corner of his eye; it’s gone—or rather, it was never there—before he sees it.</p><p>Karl says nothing in return, his gaze falling to the velvet carpet below his shoes. “Because we have to,” he repeats, almost sounding empty.</p><p>George nods. “I think I’m going to resume praying,” he whispers, pivoting on the heel of his shoe. He finds his way back to the front pews, seating himself against the lavish cushion and lacing his hands together in hushed worship. The words are numb on his lips, on the tip of his tongue, and he barely registers Karl’s presence beside him, mirroring the position and stanzas.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> A flame eagerly licks up the wooden wall. George’s mind is hazy, but his skin is sizzling under the intense heat. In the looming darkness, he can make out the curve of a face—or maybe something similar, something beastly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It’s you,” he says cautiously. The shadows morph through the warm, orange glow and a mixture of man and devil emerges from a fallen, splintering rafter. “Foul creature.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “A pleasure,” the other responds. George eyes his limbs, longer than any humans and jagged, almost. They look to be dipped in black paint, sharp claws replacing any resemblance of fingers. He wears a white mask with nothing but beady eyes and an unsettling grin scrawled across it. Underneath, albeit barely visible, he can see the outline of a jaw, highlighted only by the heightening fire. It’s starved, consuming the building around them both, yet neither are panicked nor in a hurry to leave.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I saw something,” the Brit speaks up, stepping forward over creaky, worn floorboards, “earlier, in the chapel. Was it you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Did you want it to be?” The devil, the demon, asks. It’s impossible, though George swears the inky smile widens across his mask. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I...don’t know.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “There seems to be a lot you don’t know.” </em>
</p><p><em> “The world is a mysterious place,” George counters, though he falls apart when rough skin—could it be called such?—brushes under his chin and tilts his head up. The makeshift face bores holes into him, peeking into the very core of his soul. It’s terrifying. It’s </em> exhilarating<em>. </em></p><p>
  <em> “You seek what you worship,” the demon drawls, low and gravelly; it sends tremors throughout George’s body and leaves him shaking under his grasp. “Do you know what you worship, George?”</em>
</p><p><em> “I,” George starts, but the words fall away from his tongue. He can’t find them. He doesn’t know—he doesn’t know what, </em> who<em>, he worships. The realization sears into him, molten branding burning a hole in his chest.</em></p><p><em> “You worship </em> me<em>,” he hisses, dark claws digging into his cheeks and jawline. Glossy beads of blood begin to pool over the digits and stain lines down George’s pure, porcelain skin. Untouched, innocent, yet newly ruined—newly corrupt.</em></p><p>
  <em> Does he worship because he wants to—because he has to? </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>He stirs again when Karl gently nudges his shoulder. George exhales, grounding himself.</p><p>“Sorry,” he mumbles.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Karl replies patiently, giving him a small smile. It’s forced. It seems forced. </p><p>George doesn’t know how long it was this time around, but the rain has calmed into nothing more than a quiet mist and the night is turning brighter, creeping into the early morning hours. “Tell me,” he begs quietly, “the story—the one of the god. <em> Our </em>god.”</p><p>A frown flashes across Karl’s face, but it’s gone as fast as it appears. “Of course,” he says, shifting ever so slightly in his seat. “The god was a powerful one. He was frightening, feared by all.”</p><p>“<em>Why</em>?”</p><p>His nose scrunches. “He was ruthless,” Karl continues, “and merciless. He cut down anyone in his path. He did what he had to. He constructed peace through the violence—through the chaos.”</p><p>George clenches his fists in his lap. If he stares hard enough, he can picture the red—the blood drenching his hands, dripping behind him and staining his pure heart. “Was he evil?” He whispers.</p><p>“George—you know this.”</p><p>“<em>Was he evil</em>?” George repeats, firmer this time. His knuckles begin to turn white.</p><p>Karl grimaces. “No,” he says. “Yes. Maybe. Are soldiers fighting for the greater good considered evil for ridding the world of their enemies?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” the Brit mutters, furiously, pitifully. His throat is dry, <em> burning</em>. He feels hot tears pooling in his eyes, yet he sits there, glued to the holy grounds and unmoving. “I don’t <em> know</em>, Karl.”</p><p>“George,” Karl rests a soft palm over his knee, “I think you should leave.”</p><p>He does.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> “You come find me more often these days.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re pulling me back,” George whispers. He finds himself in a dangerous embrace, surrounded by endless open fields and a dark overhanging sky. There are few stars in the sky, if any. Warm arms envelop his entire being, holding him gentle as if he were fragile. Easily broken.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Strangely, he settles back into the rise and fall of a chest behind him. The demon curls his claws around George, around his waist, holding him tight. It borders between a plea and a threat. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re my precious devotee.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You speak of blasphemy.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em> He can hear the devious grin in his voice and the mischief behind it. “And yet you rest in the arms of a sworn enemy. Why is that?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em> The silence is deafening. A gust of wind barrels past them, rustling the surrounding bushes and grass beneath them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You don’t have to answer,” the demon coos. “I know your answer. I know better than you do.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em> George shuts his eyes, eyelashes tickling against his cheeks as if to mock him, his hesitance, his lack of knowledge or a solid answer. “If I am your enemy,” he starts tentatively, “why do you reach to hold me?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em> A deep grumble emits from his throat. “I long for what I can’t have,” he says. It’s strangely honest, almost frighteningly so. He sounds softer, more vulnerable. Blood flows into George’s mouth, teeth grinding into the back of his tongue. “I’ve always wanted you, George.” </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
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</p><p>George greets the boring, beige ceiling of his bedroom. He doesn’t remember the walk home, or even changing out of his worship attire and into his evening clothes, but he supposes that he never does. His eyes wander to the crucifix hanging on the far wall; fear spikes deep in his gut when he notices it hangs upside down, but a few rapid blinks reveal that his mind is playing tricks on him. Nothing is out of the ordinary. </p><p>The rain is still falling. George thinks it always has; he can barely remember a time where it <em> hasn’t </em>been raining. </p><p>He dreams often—of fire, of floods, of dying. His dreams are not pleasant ones. They plague him, unshakable, like shackles tying him to the dirtied wall of a prison cell. George barely remembers them when he wakes, but there are always traces left behind: bruises, cuts, dried blood.</p><p>He thinks he might’ve gone crazy.</p><p>Karl insists that these things stem from his narcolepsy, that he falls asleep random and unpredictably, most often whilst praying. It’s an ill omen—they both know that, truly, yet neither say a word about it.</p><p>He sits up, pulling away the heavy cotton sheets and stares at himself. He hasn’t felt well in a long time. Not since the dreams—<em>nightmares</em>, perhaps—have started. George steps out of bed and wanders over to his desk, scratching the chair along the floor as he pulls it out and sits down into it. It’s stiff—<em>he’s </em> stiff.</p><p>His fingers trace along the binding of the book laid out over the polished oak surface. It’s old, not quite worn but it’s no longer in pristine condition. He flips through the pages, breathing ragged with something akin to guilt. A haunting presence looms behind him, ghostly touches burning red into George’s neck.</p><p>He stops on one page, breath hitching. “Dream,” the Brit says, the name rolling off his tongue, both foreign and painfully familiar.</p><p>Water rushes down his throat and no matter how much he coughs or gags or swallows around it, the feeling will not subside. It leaves salty tears spilling down his cheeks, flushed red and fracturing like the stained glass mosaic engraved proudly in the church. He can almost feel the skin breaking, pressing dry fingers to his face to feel for the invisible rips.</p><p>“Dream,” he rasps, “Dream, Dream, <em> Dream</em>. It’s always been—it’s always been <em> you</em>.”</p><p>There is no response, but George’s pupils stray from the biblical record in front of him and towards the door to his bedroom. His heart wrenches in his chest as faint, hazy recollections of golden hair and emerald eyes stutter in his mind like broken film.</p><p>A powerful god—a man who had everything, a man who threw everything away.</p><p>A man George had devoted himself to, a man cursed to his nightmares, a man he would kill for, <em> die </em>for, forsake all rhyme and reason, all religious bindings he found himself entangled in. </p><p>A Dream.</p><p><em> His </em>Dream.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://twitter.com/NETHERW4RT">twitter</a> :)</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30249186">[PODFIC] between the devil and the deep blue sea</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/downthedarkpath/pseuds/downthedarkpath">downthedarkpath</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
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